


Talking Him Round

by Calais_Reno



Series: Many Happy Returns [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Empty Hearse, Disguised Sherlock Holmes, Don't copy to another site, It's For a Case, Love Confessions, M/M, Mary Morstan/John Watson Break Up, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock Holmes Makes Deductions, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:00:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26301583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: John loves Sherlock, so why won't he move back to Baker Street?It's a case that Sherlock must solve.I thought this series needed some Sherlock POV, so here it is!Sherlock is a bit dense here, but love can do that to a person, can't it?
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Many Happy Returns [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880692
Comments: 37
Kudos: 137





	Talking Him Round

Beside the word “disaster” in the next edition of the dictionary, there will be a picture of Sherlock Holmes ( _That’s me, by the way. Hello._ ) wearing borrowed glasses and a penciled-on moustache. I can think of no more fitting illustration of what a disaster looks like. A _fucking_ disaster, to be more precise. _My_ fucking disaster.

I’m dumbstruck, staring as John gets into the cab with his— _date? girlfriend? fiancee?_ — and leaves. She’s reassured me that she’ll _talk him round,_ and I am pathetically hopeful that she’ll fix my disaster, make John less angry, so that everything can go back to normal.

By now, I have deduced that she will do no such thing.

The problem is this: I love John Watson, who now hates me. I forgot that while I was gone, missing him, he would be getting on with his life, moving out of our flat, and dating women. I certainly wouldn’t have expected him to find someone who would date him long enough to become a candidate for Mrs Watson.

Next to the word “normal” in the dictionary, there should be a picture of John wearing his beige jumper. The caption under the picture would read: _Why am I the only one reacting like a human being?!_ And if I think about it, I know this is true. John Watson is not at all _ordinary_ , but he is the arbiter of normalcy.

God knows, I am not normal at all. If I were, I might have realised that I was posing for the portrait of “disaster” when I stole that eye-pencil and gave myself a moustache.

All is not lost, however. John will eventually forgive me because he loves me. He just hasn’t realised it yet.

John Watson loves me. This is a fact. He only needs to be reminded that this is true. I thought about bringing it up while I was explaining how I faked my death, but decided against it. This was probably a good choice on my part. Nothing I said during that conversation moved him; he didn’t say _brilliant_ even once. In fact, he seemed to think I was quite stupid. And his clever girlfriend was sitting there, looking at that ring box, so it didn’t seem like the right moment to remind him that he loves me.

Fiancée now. Yes, I saw the ring on her finger by the end of the evening, even though he hadn’t put it there. That is where our discussion must begin.

Getting him alone for such a discussion is a bit tricky. He’s living in the fiancée’s flat, and they work at the same surgery, so they are together all the time.

But disguises are something I am very good at, and John is very bad at seeing through. Even my improvised waiter disguise fooled him. A long, white beard and a wig, dark glasses, a black knitted hat, and a thick accent— and I am transformed into Mr Szikora, an elderly man with a urinary tract infection. With any luck, it will require John to examine my private parts.

The trouble is that I will need to fool the clever fiancée/nurse as well. Fortunately, she’s not in sight when I enter. And the receptionist does not notice that my whiskers are obviously fake. I am shown into an examination room and remove my trousers. Just in case he wants to have a look.

As John enters, he’s holding my file, created only moments ago, reading a description of my symptoms.

“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” he says, still not looking at me. “Just a small infection by the sound of it. Er, Doctor Verner is your usual GP, yes?”

“Yeah, yeah. He looked after me, man and boy.”

John looks up now and frowns. “Jesus, Sherlock. What do you want?”

I thicken my accent. “What are you talking about?”

He rolls his eyes. “Did you really think I was gonna be fooled by this bloody beard?” Leaning forward, he grabs my beard and yanks. It comes off in his hand.

Although I actually counted on him being fooled, I know enough about friendship not to say, _Yes, I really did think you were that gullible_.

“Your observational skills have improved, John.” This is meant as a compliment, but he does not look pleased.

He sighs. “What do you want?”

“You didn’t give her the ring. She took it. You never proposed.”

“What does it matter?”

His answer tells me everything. The clever woman has him under her thumb.

“It matters because once you saw me, you no longer intended to give it to her. She simply took it, which tells me that your entire relationship—”

“It’s none of your business, and you have some nerve—“

“You don’t love _her_. You love _me_.”

He flushes. “Sherlock. What the hell do you know about me?”

“Quite a lot. Even if my deductive powers no longer amaze you, they are still fully functional. _You love me_.”

There’s a knock on the door and his nurse enters— wearing the ring. Triumph gleams in her eyes more brightly than the diamond. “Doctor, is everything all right?”

“This is a private consultation,” I say. “I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it later, when he asks you to give back the ring.”

“Oh, God!” She starts laughing. “Sherlock Holmes, where are your trousers?”

With dignity, I pull myself up. “The exam is not finished. Kindly leave.”

Giggling, she opens the door and leans back in. “If you need anything, John, I’ll be right outside.”

I move towards John, speaking in a low voice. “You know what I’m saying is true. I won’t remind you again. We’re friends, nothing more, if you like. I’m sorry you’re angry, but you knew what I was when you decided to move in with me. The first time you followed me out the door of 221B, you knew I was a bit of a wanker. You shouldn’t be surprised that after two years I’m still the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet.”

John softens a bit, his mouth quirking up on one side. “Look, I’m sorry about the other night. It was kind of a shock for me, and I just reacted— badly, I guess. I know you’re clever, but I never expected you to actually return from the dead.”

“Are we good then? You forgive me?” I don’t know why I’m asking this. _Of course_ he does.

“Sherlock, you need to give me some time. Things with Mary— and now you— I just need a little space.”

“Time, space, all fine. I’ll expect you tomorrow, then, at Baker Street. I know you’ve missed it —the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world ... And we’ve got this terrorist plot to foil, as I said.”

He winces. “Look, I’m not sure—“

“London is in danger, John. I need you at my side.”

He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “All right. I guess I can take some days off.”

“Good. Just one question.” I gesture at my upper lip. “Are you really gonna keep that?”

I notice that he hasn’t denied my observation. He’s definitely in love with me.

Now that I have established that John still loves me, I seek to introduce danger into his life again. John loves danger. For him, it is an aphrodisiac.

He shows up at the flat the following day, looking a bit wary. His rages never last long; it’s his resentments I have to worry about. Hewill still be distant, nursing his grudge with long silences and aggrieved looks.

But the game is on, and he cannot resist. He asks a few questions, then begins making suggestions. First there is the clue of the Great Rat of Sumatra, aka Sebastian Moran. Then there is the footage of the train, the missing five minutes. The underground network and the disappearing carriage. These things are rather cerebral and not nearly dangerous enough, but there is still time for that. John is interested.

We locate the abandoned tube station, right under the Palace of Westminster, as I deduced. Not only is there a bomb down there, as John suggested— the entire carriage _is_ a bomb, rigged with explosives, guaranteeing the destruction of Parliament, which will be in session when it goes off. The entire palace, both houses, will go up in a massive explosion.

While this situation looks ripe for exploitation, the perfect way to make John recognise that I am the person he really loves, it’s not looking good for survival. I spend several minutes studying the giant device, which will trigger all the other explosives in the carriage. While I am figuring out how to defuse it, the lights come on and the countdown begins: _2:15_.

I urge John to leave. He’s right, though; there is no time to escape.

Urgently, I feel for a switch. There must be a switch.

It is at this moment, while I’m kneeling beside the device, watching the timer tick down the last moments of our lives, that I find the off-switch. I slide my fingers down the side of the device and flick it. The timer blinks, but does not advance.

In retrospect, I probably should have mentioned this.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“What?”

“I can’t do it, John. I don’t know how.”

He shakes his head vehemently. “No, no, no. This is a trick, another one of your bloody tricks.”

“It’s not.”

“You’re just trying to get me to admit—“

“No, John. I’m sorry.”

He licks his lips. His eyes shift around the car, avoiding me. “Look, what you did was wrong. I wanted you not to be dead—“

“Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for.”

He sighs; his hands clench into fists. “Look, I find it difficult.”

“I know. I’m so sorry, John. All the hurt I caused you… Can you forgive me?”

“This kind of stuff…” He bows his head and speaks so softly I can barely hear him. “You were… the best and wisest man… that I have ever known. And… you’re right. I love you.”

“John.”

“I forgive you. Of course I do.”

I rise and come to him, take his face in my hands. “I love you, John.” And I kiss him.

This doesn’t seem to shock him. He leans into me and deepens the kiss, and I put my hand behind his head and hold him. His moustache tickles. It’s a very long kiss, approximately ninety seconds.

At this point he pulls away, his face puzzled. He looks at the device. “But… the bomb?”

“I turned it off.”

“You… found the off switch?”

“Obviously.” I lean in for another kiss.

“You… cock! You utter cock!”

“I probably should have mentioned it, but it seemed that you had something you wanted to say.”

“You let me think—” He gapes for a moment, then pushes me away. “Just so I’d say—“ 

“You meant it,” I reply. “I didn’t force it out of you. And I didn’t lie. I have no idea to turn off all these silly lights.”

“A lie of omission,” he says, glaring his best Captain glare at me. “If you tell anyone, I will kill you.”

Hearing the squawk of a radio and seeing the beams of flashlights approaching, I turn and begin walking.

“And you called the police?”

“Of course I called the police.”

Shaking his head, he follows me. “I’m definitely gonna kill you.”

“Oh, please! Killing me… that’s _so_ two years ago.”

I turn and see him smiling to himself. _Score._

After saving London from the terrorist attack, we don’t see one another for several days. It’s clear that he hasn’t said anything to his fiancée. He doesn’t call or text me, and I begin to wonder. He has acknowledged his love, but perhaps has decided that the confession being given under imminent threat of death negates it. As if he can just walk back and say something like, _When I said I love you, I didn’t mean_ _love_ _love, you know. Remember, I’m not gay._

On several occasions he has announced that he’s _not gay_. I have never let these declarations bother me much. He is possibly the least observant man of my acquaintance, is clearly gay and simply hasn’t noticed.

My plan must shift to Phase Two now: getting rid of Mary. As a first step, I must pretend I’m happy about his engagement so that when it begins to fall apart, he will confide in me. At that point I will be able to manipulate him easily.

I’m not sure I can pull off a new disguise at the surgery, so I drop in on them one evening.

Mary answers the door. “Well, Sherlock! What a pleasant surprise.”

Her smile is overly smug, her diamond annoyingly bright. What is it about this woman that bothers me so?

She is lying about something. As an accomplished liar myself, I can easily read the signs. Furthermore, I discern that she is reading me as well, and knows I am lying. We are two cats, circling around the same oblivious mouse.

“I’m afraid I don’t have time for pleasantries.” I smile apologetically. “I have a case, and need John’s assistance.”

John, hearing my voice, is at the door now beside her. He looks a bit rumpled, his shoes off and his hair askew. “What’s going on, Sherlock?”

“Come, Watson, the game’s afoot!” I say. “You’ll need your gun.”

His eyebrows rise at this, but he obediently trots off and returns wearing his shoes and coat, tucking his revolver into the pocket.

Mary takes the lapels of his coat and pulls him close. “It’s a tiny bit sexy, you know.” She kisses him.

He smiles. “I’ll be fine.”

Once we’re in the cab, he says, “What’s the case?”

“I can’t tell you.” _The case is Mary_ , I’m thinking. A liar who has her claws in my John.

“Right. So… we’re on a case, and you can’t tell me what it is.”

“That’s correct.” I’m improvising as we go. Maybe it can be a stakeout. John loves those.

Twenty minutes later we’re crouching behind a skip in a deserted alley, supposedly waiting for a one-legged man who will be carrying a baker’s bag full of pastry.

“I had Mrs Hudson dust your room,” I whisper. “When are you moving back?”

“Why do you think I’m moving back?”

“Because you love me.” I wait for him to explain: _not gay._

He’s silent for a long moment. “Sherlock, I’m getting married.”

“You’re not obligated to marry her. Just tell her you’re in love with someone else. People do it all the time.”

“You don’t understand,” he hisses.

“What?”

In the dim light, I can see that he’s pressing his lips together. “When you were gone, she saved me from destroying myself. She picked me up before I hit rock bottom. I owe her something.”

“Ah. And you owe me nothing, obviously. Even though I saved your life, gave up my own life for two years to track down all of the people who had threatened you.” I sound bitter, which may not help my cause right now.

“Sherlock, you’re my best friend. No one will replace you—”

At this moment, against all odds, a man with an aluminium crutch limps into the alley, carrying a bag full of pastry. Unexpected, but perhaps convenient.

“It’s him,” I say, grasping his arm. “We’ll follow him. No confrontation. We just need to trace him to his lair.”

“His lair?”

I nod. “Follow me.”

We follow the man for fifteen minutes before he enters an undistinguished-looking block of flats. I note the light that comes on a few floors above street level when he reaches his flat.

“Back to Baker Street,” I say, looking for a taxi. “We’ll need to think about this one over a cup of tea.”

“I’m not sure why you needed me,” John says. “I didn’t do anything but squat behind a skip with you.”

“Of course I needed you. He might have sensed we were following and turned on us. This fellow is quite ruthless.”

“The one-legged bloke with the pastries?”

“A sniper, John. Scotland Yard has been tracking him for weeks.”

“Look, maybe I’ll go on home, then, if you’re just going to be in your Mind Palace.”

“No— I still need you.” I link my arm through his. “My conductor of light.”

“Sherlock.” He’s being gentle now, and I sense that he’s getting ready to make an irrevocable decision. “I appreciate this, but…” He trails off.

“Say no more. If you’d rather keep our little affair under wraps, I am amenable.”

“ _Our little affair?_ We’re not having an affair, you berk.”

“You kissed me.”

“I thought we were going to die.”

“Was that a pity kiss, then? It certainly didn’t feel like pity. More like passion, I think.”

His face turns a bit pink. “All right. It was an emotional moment, and I admit that I felt… some regret.”

“And fortunately you have a chance to remove all regrets,” I reply. “The longer you wait, the harder it will be on Miss Morstan. It would be kinder to confess tonight. Though I don’t believe she really loves you, so if she cries—.”

“What do you mean she doesn’t love me?”

“I admit she’s pretty, and persuasive in a cheeky sort of way. A virtuoso of manipulation.”

“Sounds like somebody I know,” he says. “Are you sure you’re not describing yourself?”

“Perhaps that’s why you chose her,” I suggest.

“I chose her,” he says, frowning, “because she’s _normal_. She talks to me, and tells me when she’s going to be late. She stops at the store before we run out of things. She’s considerate.”

“Sounds dreadful,” I remark. “Think of it. Every day for the rest of your life, exactly the same. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Tea in the cupboard, milk in the fridge. Walk the dog, help the kiddies with their homework, watch the telly, go to sleep. John Watson, I know you better than you think. You don’t want normal, you want to spend your evenings in dark alleys, your nights staking out suspects, your days running after criminals. Admit it, you miss that life.”

His phone pings. I already know who it is.

“I have to go,” he says. “Got work in the morning.”

Belatedly, I try to change the tone. “Thank you for tonight.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve missed you, John.”

He smiles. “I’ve missed you too. Look, it’s all going to be fine. There are just a few things I need to work through.” Seeing no cabs, he begins to walk away.

“John.”

He turns and looks at me. “What is it?”

I run a finger over my upper lip. “You’re really keeping it?”

He walks away towards the tube station.

There are no more terrorist plots, and I’m not sure John will buy into another fake stake-out. I need a real case, with bodies and clues and suspects. I scan my emails, looking for something that will take us out of town for a few days. Unfortunately, all the really interesting criminals seem to be on holiday.

Mary Morstan is many things, I’ve deduced, most of them harmless. But she’s a liar as well, and this isn’t a good predictor of happiness for John Watson, who has grown a moustache under the delusion that she loves it, only to discover that she hates it. He sees, but fails to reason from what he sees, and more often than not, makes incorrect inferences. This woman’s lies might be minor, the kind of things many people fib about at the beginning of a relationship, but she is most definitely concealing something.

This will have to be a long game, I decide. I give myself several weeks to open John’s eyes and break it off. Subtlety will be necessary, and patience. I can’t be the one to snatch away his illusion; he will have to see it himself.

He stops by two days after the Affair of the Aluminium Crutch.

“You’ve shaved your moustache,” I say.

He grimaces. “Clever you.”

“It means… don’t tell me— she made you do it. No— no, she made fun of you when you did it!”

He sighs. “Wasn’t working for me.”

“Mm. I’m glad. I prefer my doctors clean-shaven.” I think about crossing the room, taking his adorable face in my hands and kissing him now that the bristles are gone. If I need another life-threatening situation to make that possible, I am willing to invent one.

He smirks. “I didn’t know you had a preference.”

“It tickled when I kissed you. Not unpleasantly, but—“

“I’ve moved out,” he says.

My heart leaps, but fortunately I realise that glee is not the best response. And I’m curious. What prompted the breakup? Though I have known marriages to end in divorce over less than a moustache, it seems unlikely in this case. Could he have actually confessed to her that he’s in love with me? Curiosity generally overcomes the small bit of reticence I naturally possess, but I cannot deduce this. And I _must_ know.

“This is my fault,” I conclude.

“It has nothing to do with you. I’ve been going back and forth about it for a while. I finally realised my indecision meant I didn’t really love her, and I had to be honest. It simply wasn’t something I could talk myself into.”

I tackle the next mystery. “You said you’ve moved out.”

John nods. “I’ve moved in with a friend, a nurse from the surgery.”

 _Friend?_ John has _colleagues_ at the surgery, and he has _mates_ he occasionally meets at a pub. He has acquaintances and patients and people who read his blog and people he has conversations with while they’re making his coffee or standing at a bus stop. Does he have _friends_ too?

And _nurse._ Mary is a nurse, or at least pretending to be one. This _friend_ is also a nurse. While I’m not such a sexist as to assume that a _nurse_ has to be a _woman,_ it is possible that John is living with another woman now.

It’s all clear. This new _friend_ is why he’s broken off his engagement. He’s been seeing her behind Mary’s back, having an affair with another coworker. Realising that he lacks the duplicity to continue dating both women, he is trying to extricate himself from one. Next question: if he’s having an affair with a _friend_ , why not have one with me as well? I’m a friend, after all.

“You could move back here,” I suggest. “Plenty of room.”

“Thanks,” he says. “It’s fine. Alison’s flatmate just moved out and she was looking for someone to share the rent with. It’s a nice flat, a bit pricey. And not too far from here.”

 _221B is a nice flat,_ I think. _And a bit pricey_. Why is Alison’s place special? (Or is it Alison who is special?) If he lives with Alison, will he be willing to accompany me on cases? Will he still want to do takeaway and watch movies with me? What does it mean that John would sooner move into a _nice, somewhat pricey_ flat with Alison, when he won’t move in with me, even though I can offer him danger, murder, and a reason to carry his gun?

Maybe Alison doesn’t spoil the endings of movies. Maybe she cleans up after herself and doesn’t leave disgusting things in the fridge. Maybe she doesn’t shoot holes in the walls when she’s bored. She’s probably so simple-minded that she never even gets bored. She’s one of those cheerful and competent people who always have little projects that take up their spare time. Needlepoint, wood-working, sky-diving.

She’s probably a lesbian. I hope she’s a lesbian.

“Good,” I say.

But it isn’t good.

It is unprecedented for John Watson to be dating two women at one time. He’s very loyal, and not good at deception. The question is this: is he in love with this Alison person, or is he just having sex with her?

I need to meet her to determine whether she’s a danger to John. Mary was hiding things, lying about her past. She might have been an assassin for all I know. At least she’s gone.

This one might be an assassin too, though the likelihood of two assassins working at the same surgery is slim.

Even if she doesn’t assassinate people as a side job, though, she might rope John into a risky lifestyle. (What would that be? Would it be more exciting that the life I roped John into? Would he be happier?)

And she’s definitely a woman. John doesn’t know he’s gay, and if he’s looking for sex, a woman is his go-to.

But there are other dangers. She might cheat on him, run up his credit cards, get pregnant accidentally-on-purpose. John is careful, but he’s also an idiot, especially where sex is concerned.

In any case, she might make an ultimatum: John can have Sherlock, or he can have Alison, but not both. Sadly, I recognise that I would not be John’s first pick, not when sex is on offer.

It’s time for Phase Three: get rid of Alison.

At this point, a call to Mycroft might have been necessary, but John has conveniently written his new address on a slip of paper and attached it to the fridge with a magnet. It’s the same magnet, a smiling hedgehog, that John always used when he left little domestic notes for me— _Home late tonight. Going to shops, need anything? I threw away the spleen. Don’t blow up the kitchen._

I might need a pretext. Having a credible reason for stopping by will make things less awkward. A present, I decide. A housewarming gift. That’s a thing people do, and it almost guarantees that I’ll be invited in. John will think I’m being thoughtful, and will wonder how he could have ever overlooked my consideration for others and respect for social norms. Those things are important to John.

It’s a block of flats on Gower Street, similar to Baker Street, but more uniform, more bland. Convenient to the shops, a short walk from the Euston Square station. Too expensive to be student housing, but young professionals might live here, sharing the rent.

I push the bell for John’s flat. There is no response. I consider my options. Picking a lock in broad daylight isn’t a good one. If I wait for someone to come by, I will have to lurk about, pretending I’m waiting for someone. I’m good at lurking, but it does arouse suspicion if it goes on too long. Fortunately an incautious person comes out the door as I’m lurking. Key in my hand, I pretend I was just coming in. We exchange meaningless smiles; he continues on and I slip inside.

As I reach the first floor, a woman’s voice calls out, “Forget your key?”

The door is open, and I peer inside, not sure what social norms are under such conditions. Technically, I haven’t been invited inside, but the door is open, I’m not planning to burgle the flat, and I’m holding a gift, so I walk in. I can hear her talking in the other room, reminding him that they need laundry soap.

Realising that I have only a second or two to deduce what I can, I make a quick scan of the room, zeroing in on the telling details.

Photos of a young woman, most likely Alison, with a man. Not a recent photo. Her posture and the man’s say _brother and sister._ She is petite, wears glasses, and has brown hair.

The DVDs say she prefers mysteries and period dramas. She is a vegetarian, but doesn’t take vitamins. She has a juicer she rarely uses, probably because it takes too much effort to clean. It was a gift from someone she doesn’t talk to any more. No juice, no vitamins; therefore, not a lifestyle vegetarian. Probably loves animals, hates eating them.

The flat is neat, but a bit dusty. She doesn’t like clutter, doesn’t have allergies to dust or mould. A needlepoint project is on the sofa, a picture of a small cottage. Present for her mum, whose birthday is approaching. I see no evidence of woodworking or skydiving.

“Did you get the—“ She is coming out of the bedroom now, holding an armload of towels, and does a double-take when she sees me standing there. “Oh. Who are you?”

“I’m Sherlock.”

This does not spark any recognition. “You’re looking for John?”

“Yes. I’m his— I was his flatmate. Before.”

“Oh.” She’s what I would call _ordinary._ Over-sized glasses, nondescript hair pulled back in a ponytail, good skin, a normal face with no outstanding features. John would call her _pretty_ , and would argue with me when I said she was _bland_.

I own that I have never been able to define John’s taste in women. He dates women who are tiny, like this one, and women who are taller than he is. Blondes, brunettes, short hair, long hair. I study this woman for clues. What does John see in her?

Vulnerability, perhaps. She looks at me warily, glances around for something she can use to bash my head in with.

It doesn’t matter. I have scared away many of John’s girlfriends in the past, women much more formidable than this one.

“John’s not here,” she says. _Obviously_.

“I brought this.” I hold up the paper bag in which I’ve stowed the gift.

“Sherlock!” John is behind me now, just reaching the doorway, holding a bag of takeaway. Kebabs for him, something with eggplant for her, judging by the smell of it. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought you a… a housewarming gift.” That’s what it is, I remember. Something to make his house warmer, cosier, and remind him of me. A gift that one friend might give to another, even if that friend is not saying why he doesn’t want to live on Baker Street.

Smiling, John sets the takeaway on the table and opens the bag.

“A mug?” He holds up the mug I found in the back of the cupboard. Molly gave it to me for some occasion I’ve forgotten. It has words on it that appear when it’s filled with hot liquid. She even had it custom-made. It says, _You see, but do not observe._ “This is yours, Sherlock. Didn’t Molly—”

“Yes, but I’m giving it to you, because… it’s a present.”

John turns the mug around in his hands. There’s a chip on the rim, I notice. Probably why it was in the back of the cabinet.

“Thank you…?” he says. “What’s the occasion?”

“Your new… home.” It hurts to say this. As if anywhere could be John’s home but Baker Street. “To welcome you. To make it…” I gesture vaguely at the room. “… warmer.”

John smiles and gives a little head shake, the one that means I’m being an idiot but don’t know it. “Would you like to stay? We were just going to watch a movie.”

“No. You have…” I wave at the bag of takeaway, “…and I need to go.”

“A case?” John looks a bit eager, I think, and maybe wistful.

I focus my deductive powers on the two of them. She’s recently out of another relationship, as is John. There isn’t any heavy sexual tension in the air, but John is looking at her with concern. Definitely something between them. And I wonder what I have to offer John Watson besides danger and cases and a messy flat. I would offer him sex _,_ too, but John doesn’t want that, not from me. .

“Yes. A case.” I could think of something for us to investigate, if John should decide to come with me. “Want to… I mean, you could…”

I glance at at the woman. She’s a bit annoyed, I think. Is she jealous of that wistful look on John’s face? She didn’t recognise my name, but that doesn’t mean John hasn’t shared stories about his _last flatmate, who used to leave severed heads in the fridge._ Who fell to his death before John’s eyes, and then rudely came back from the dead.

John’s face is doing things I can’t interpret. He gives Alison a look of concern, then smiles at me. “Not this time, I guess. Call me?”

“Of course.” Giving him them best fake smile, I glance towards the door. “Well, nice meeting you. Enjoy your mug. And—“ I gesture awkwardly at the room. “Food, movie. Enjoy.”

I don’t call John because doing so would appear too eager. Being eager and getting turned down eventually add up to being pathetic. Once you’ve slipped into being pathetic, it’s hard to restore your dignity. Sherlock Holmes has a reputation; I cannot afford to evoke pity.

But since we live almost in the same neighbourhood, less than half an hour’s walk apart, I might have reason to drop by. Or just hang around in the cafe across the street, wearing a disguise. It’s a measure of my desperation that I resort to another disguise, so soon after my recent failure.

I watch them leave the flat on the third day I’ve staked out their door from the cafe. The first day I was an elderly clergyman, but the glue from the whiskers gave me a rash, so the next day I had to see a dermatologist. With the aid of some cortisone cream, I reappeared the following day wearing a wig and thick glasses. The glasses made it impossible to see anything, so today I have come as myself. With a pretext.

I never have to use any of my invented excuses for watching John’s front door because when he finally emerges with Alison, they don’t notice me. They’re holding hands, deep in conversation. John is smiling, leans over to say something in her ear as they walk. There’s no kissing, but I imagine it’s rather hard to manage that while walking. They’re too far away for me to observe any signs of _sex,_ but it’s easy to see that John feels affection for her, and that hovering protectiveness that he often exhibits without realising it. Based on this, I deduce that they’ve had sex. I can also see a lump at the back of his waist, where he used to carry his gun. _Interesting._

He used to bristle when Donovan and Anderson taunted me. He used to protect me when we were on a case. Maybe this is what John wants, a Sherlock who is a flailing mess of insecurity and reckless behaviour. A reason to carry his gun. A Sherlock who BAMF-ed his way through Eastern Europe without John’s help stirs up no protective instincts.

Eastern Europe really wasn’t that much of a lark, as I recall. John and I have never gotten far enough in a conversation since my return to discuss that part. Most of it was boring surveillance, occasionally alleviated by infiltrating a cell and setting Moriarty’s people on each other. The torture was the least fun part. It was brief, but I will wear those scars for a long time. And John can’t know about that.

I follow John for several days before he finally catches on that he’s being shadowed. He turns abruptly and stares at me until I approach, trying to look pleasantly surprised.

“Well, John! Fancy running into you—“

“Sherlock, you have to stop following me.”

“I wasn’t—“

“You had whiskers on Monday, and on Wednesday you wore thick glasses. Sherlock, I know all of your disguises.”

I switch strategies. “Look, I’m sorry. About… everything. I know I said, but I’ve thought about it and realise that you may not understand the depth of my regret. I shouldn’t have sprung my return on you like that. Please accept my apologies.”

He nods, his eyes guarded. “Of course. I think there are conversations about that we still need to have, but I accept what you said that night, that it was necessary. I’ll get over it. You don’t need to follow me.”

This isn’t encouraging. I don’t want him to _get over_ me like a bout of food poisoning. I want him to move back home.

I shift tactics yet again. “I’m worried about you, John. I know you’ve managed three continents worth of women, but I think you’re jumping into this a bit hastily.”

“I’m not being hasty.”

“I can’t bear to see you under her thumb like this. She’s using you.”

“Yes, she is. It was my idea.”

“ _Your_ idea?”

He frowns. “Maybe you could just use your insanely brilliant brain to figure it out. Just— stop following us. It’s creepy.”

I watch him walk away, wondering what I’m missing. Alison is clearly using John’s shoulder to cry on, manipulating him into other things. I’m only trying to be a good friend.

Three days later, I decide to stop by the surgery. While I might come up with another item to give to John, maybe a book he left behind, or the jumper I ruined and hid in the back of his closet so he would never know about that. (He thinks he left it at a locum job, while he was still doing that work.)

In the end, no present is required; I cut my finger rather badly while slicing a tomato. It’s an accident, one I might deal with as I usually do, by wrapping some gauze around it and waiting for it to stop, but it’s bleeding quite a lot, and that seem fortuitous.

I take a cab to the surgery, check in with the receptionist, show her my bloody wad of gauze. Mary spots me and comes over to the desk while my info is being put into the system.

“Sherlock Holmes.” She gives me the smile of a sociopathic liar. I would know. “I hope all is well at Baker Street now that John is back.”

“Oh, he’s not living with me.” Without fully realising what her look of shock means, I continue. “He’s moved in with Alison.”

“Alison!” Her face reddens, her eyes narrow.

Belatedly I realise that my theory is wrong. John didn’t use Alison as an excuse for moving out. He told Mary he was moving back to Baker Street. 

The woman in question sticks her head through the door. “You need me?” Seeing me, she smiles. “Hello, Sherlock.”

Mary turns to her with a murderous expression. “You— all this time, right under my nose—“

 _Interesting._ And a bit not good. I believe a cat-fight is about to occur. I probably should have just said _fine_ when she asked how Baker Street was doing.

And just when it seems that things could not become more interesting, an enraged man with a gun bursts through the door.

Alison is gone, vanished at the slam of the door. Mary cooly picks up the phone and pushes 999. The patients in the waiting area are frozen in fear. One begins to cry.

And John is here now, a threatening look on his face, his gun hidden by a cuddly jumper.

“You!” the gunman snarls. He’s a big man, much taller and wider than John. Anger issues, a mother complex, a drinking/gambling problem. And to his risk, he is underestimating John Watson.

“Give me the gun, Tim,” John says. “You’re not going to shoot anyone today.”

“Sure about that?” Tim scowls at him, waves the gun around. “I only want to talk to Alison, and if you think you’re going to stop me, you’re an idiot.”

I’ve stepped back from the receptionist’s window now, feeling indignant that this idiot has just called John Watson an idiot. No one gets to do that. Only I am allowed to call John an idiot. I watch to see what will happen next, my mind spinning possible scenarios.

John catches my eye, and I know what he wants me to do, and what is going to happen when I do.

I laugh. “Is that even a real gun?”

The man turns on me. “You want to see how real—“

The momentary distraction is enough for John, who disarms Tim with a chop to his forearm and bends the arm so far behind his back that he cries out in pain. John then slams him against the wall, his hand on the mans’ neck, uses his right foot to sweep the man’s feet out from under him, sending him to the ground. John scoops up the gun and aims it at him.

“You broke my arm!”

“No, I sprained it. I’m a doctor. I know how to sprain people. I also know how to use a gun.”

“I just wanted to talk to her!”

John smiles. “Not very nice to pull a gun on people. The lady doesn’t want to see you— not since the last time you hit her. This time they won’t let you out as soon, what with the gun charges, aggravated menacing, and so forth.”

As he turns to me and smiles, we can hear the sirens.

John doesn’t call, but Mycroft does.

“It appears your doctor has become as much of a danger magnet as you, brother.”

“He’s not _my_ doctor _,_ ” I reply.

“Not for want of trying, I’m sure.”

“What do you want, Mycroft? I suppose you’ve heard about our little adventure at the surgery.”

“Yes, no doubt Dr Watson will find an appropriately cringe-worthy title for his blog account. _The Incident of the Impatient Patient,_ perhaps. Or—“

“Mycroft. I don’t need to talk about this— _I was there_. I repeat: what do you want?”

“A woman employed at his surgery has just been arrested. I thought you’d be interested. Her name is Mary Morstan, a freelance assassin with more aliases than you have boltholes. It appears that it is not an accident that she looked for employment at this particular surgery. Can you guess her target?”

“Obviously it was John. Why else would you have called?”

“It was you, Sherlock. She wanted to get close to him in order to determine your whereabouts, which means that she knew you were alive. When you appeared at the restaurant, where I understand you made quite an impression on both staff and guests, she put her plan in motion. She is a former associate of both Moriarty and Sebastian Moran, and her assignment was to kill you. Fortunately the incident at the surgery brought her to the attention of my people and she was picked up last night— en route to your flat.”

“Does John know?”

“I thought you might want to tell him.”

“I haven’t seen him for two days.”

“Well, perhaps this will give you something to talk about when he appears. I believe he’s walking down Baker Street as we speak. Ought to be at your door in less than two minutes, at the rate he’s walking.”

I hear his key in the lock downstairs and his feet on the steps. When he reaches the flat, I can see that he has a bag slung over his shoulder and a box in his hands. It almost looks as if he’s moving back in, but that can’t possibly be right.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He sets the box on the sofa, puts his hands on his hips and smiles. “Thought I might stay, if it’s okay with you.”

“Maybe I already have a new flatmate,” I reply, trying to look uninterested.

“You don’t.” John opens the box, sets his RAMC mug and the _you see but you do not observe_ mug on the kitchen counter. He returns to the box and takes out a handful of books, places them on the bookshelf.

“Did she throw you out?” Women have done it before, I remind myself. Women are idiots.

“Nope.”

“The location was poor. Not close enough to the shops. Too noisy at night. The landlord’s an ogre. She’s joined a cult and is trying to convert you.”

“Nope to all. I’m here because I’m _your_ flatmate. And your friend, I hope.”

“Ah, she’s a lesbian.”

“Nope.”

“You’re not dating her?”

“Nope.” He finishes putting his books on the shelf. “You see, but you do not observe.”

I must rise to this challenge or completely fail John, who already suspects that I am an idiot. I think about Alison, what I’ve observed of her in their flat and at the clinic.

“The day you were spraining that angry fellow,” I say. “That was her boyfriend. He wasn’t there after Alison; he came to confront you. Which means he just recently learned about you and Alison.”

John nods. “Correct. But you’re missing something. There wasn’t anything to learn about me and Alison. At least, not like you were thinking.”

“You’re not…”

“We’re not,” he confirms. “I was doing her a favour.”

The light dawns. “Her boyfriend was abusive. She had him arrested, but when they let him out, she was afraid. You agreed to live with her… to protect her.”

He nods. “She was afraid of him, and knew he would come looking for her. When she told me, I offered to move in with her. We could come and go from work together, and I’d be there at night in case he tried to break in. He assumed— as you did— that we were sleeping together. We weren’t. It’s understandable that he would think that, because he has assumed that about every man she works with or even speaks to. But you didn’t have any more evidence that he did, and you decided that she was my girlfriend, too.”

“I was basing my conclusions on your past dating experiences. I assumed that you left Mary for Alison, but didn’t want Mary to know. You kept it quiet at the surgery until I blundered in and said something.”

“I explained it all to Mary. She was still angry, but she agreed not to bother Alison about it.”

“But you weren’t… you didn’t— I realise that my assumption was wrong, but it fit a pattern, I thought. Though usually women break up with you, not the other way around.”

“And why was that, do you think?” John is smiling, his arms folded across his chest. “Why do women always break up with me?”

“Because they’re all idiots?”

John sighs. “They’re not. I’m the idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot, John. I know I call you that sometimes, but I mean it with affection. You’re actually reasonably intelligent.”

“I know I am, but you’ve always been right. I am an idiot. The reason I broke up with Mary, the reason for my indecision, is that I finally figured something out. I don’t know why it took me so long. I think it was you dying that started the process. Seeing you again put it all in place for me.”

“John, I understand that you’re angry, and I don’t know how else to apologise. I truly regret that you grieved for me so deeply.”

“I did grieve. What does that tell you, Sherlock? What does say that I grieved so deeply— for two entire years?”

“You were angry that I took my life, as you believed. Anger is a common reaction to suicide. And you’re a man of habit, used to having me around. It upset your routines.”

“I was angry, yes. But it wasn’t because you upset my routines. You weren’t just a habit. The main reason I grieved was because I realised that I love you, and that it was too late to say that to you.”

“You love me.” I think about all the things this might mean. “You mean, as a friend?”

“I mean, women always break up with me because it’s obvious that I’m in love with you.”

 _In love? Obvious?_ “How did I not deduce this?”

He grins. “Because you’re an idiot, too. The night you showed up… I’m sorry about that, too. I’d been dating Mary for a while, and kept wondering why I wasn’t happy. I bought the ring, thinking I would begin to feel happy if I just committed to the relationship. When you showed up, I knew why I wasn’t. I shouldn’t have hit you. It was… an overreaction, as you said.”

“An understandable reaction,” I say. “But you decided to move in with Alison afterwards. I thought you were rejecting the possibility of moving back to Baker Street because you were angry with me. I was hoping to change your mind until I met Alison. Then I wasn’t sure what you were thinking. You seemed very protective of her, a trait that’s always been linked with attraction in your past relationships.”

“Alison called me that night, after we got back to Mary’s flat. Mary wasn’t happy about that, either. Alison’s boyfriend had called her, threatening to come over, and she was scared. So I went over and stayed with her.”

“That’s why you’ve been keeping your gun on you. I thought it was because you missed working on cases. And I couldn’t figure out why you wouldn’t just move back here if you felt that way.”

“I did miss the cases. But mainly I wanted to be ready in the event that Tim showed up acting crazy. Alison and I had been talking for a few weeks, and I’d offered her support. She’d gone the legal route, but he’d been in prison for over a year and the restraining order had run out. She’d have to take him to court again. While she was sorting it out, I said I’d live with her.”

“Is she all right now?”

He nods. “She’s taken a job out of London. I’m not allowed to say where. And Mary has moved on as well. No one knows where she’s gone. So, no more women in my life.”

“About Mary…” Maybe this isn’t the time to tell John that he’s been dating an assassin. He’ll most likely be upset by this news because he has a rule about dating assassins. He’ll question his judgment about dating in general, and that can only lead to doubts about moving back in with a man who feeds his danger addiction.

“John,” I say. “I’ve always hoped…” I’m still stuck on _it’s obvious that I’m in love with you._ Maybe my ears are playing tricks on me, telling me what I want to hear. “What I’m trying to say…”

“Come here,” he says.

When I’m within arm’s reach, he grabs my hand and pulls me closer. “You’re an idiot,” he says. He pulls my face down toward his and kisses me.

His arms wrap around me and I feel warmth spread through my entire body. His tongue parts my lips and gently explores my mouth. I sigh and melt into him, holding him so close that I can feel his heart beating.

I break away because I realise I haven’t said the words. “John,” I gasp. “I love you.”

He grins. “Obviously.”

John is, in fact, quite brilliant. When I finish kissing him, I’m going to tell him so.

**Author's Note:**

> The next story is called "Familiar" and is from John's POV.  
> It will be posted in a week: 12 September.  
> Thank you for following this series! Please subscribe to Calais_Reno or to Many Happy Returns (series) if you wish to receive an update.


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